Stiles Stilinski, in the Library, with the Lead Piping
by TantalumCobolt
Summary: A 'what happened off screen' coda fic for 5x05 to explain what might have happened between Stiles leaving the school and seeing Lydia the next day.


**AN:** **So I've read a couple of coda fics for episode 5x05 and I thought I'd try my own hand at it. Not sure how well this turned out (it was written late last night and I've only done a quick read-over since then) but I needed a bit of a father/son moment between Stiles and the Sheriff so here it is.**

 **I also think the Sheriff has put up with Stiles' bullshit enough in the past four/five seasons (and basically his entire life) that he'd need a pretty good reason to let Stiles take a sick day so I guess this is kinda an explanation for that too?**

 **Please leave feedback in the comments - love it? hate it? found an error? - and any suggestions for other fics :)**

 **Thank you and enjoy!**

Stiles is in bed by the time his father gets home. After the school (after Donovan) he has no appetite so he forgoes his usual routine of making dinner and leaving leftovers for when his dad gets off his late shift, barely remembering to hang the keys to his jeep on the hook before stumbling upstairs. His clothes don't even make It to the hamper as he strips down to his boxers and crawls into bed.

He doesn't know how long he just lies there with his eyes squeezed shut and his knees pulled close to his chest in a vain attempt to stop the trembling that has made home in his body. It feels like hours; maybe it is.

Behind closed lids he watches an agonising second-by-second replay of the- the- the what? 'Incident' is too cliche. ('Murder' is too close to the truth.)

Sometimes, just for kicks, his mind plays it over in fast-forward too. So fast he feels dizzy from the multitude of blurring colours which skid across his mind before jarring to a shuddering stop on the too-bright-too-red blood oozing from the hole he'd put in Donovan's body.

(Was it even an accident? Did he mean to drive a lead pipe through Donovan's heart? He can't even remember anymore.)

At some point his dad comes home. Stiles doesn't move from his cocoon beneath his blankets ("Shh, shh, it's okay, baby boy. We'll hide from the monsters beneath out blanket fort and mummy will protect you, okay?") even when he hears the tell-tale thump of his dad's footsteps on the stairs.

(What else is tell-tale? A heart? Yes, yes; the tell-tale heart will reveal the murder committed under the false cover of the night. Nothing can remain in the dark forever.)

"Stiles? You still awake?" His dad calls softly, pushing open the bedroom door.

Stiles doesn't mean to answer (if he pretends he's asleep his dad will go away and then he won't have to face him) (he can't face him; not yet) (maybe not ever) but he must make some kind of noise because then his father is pushing the door open further (letting the light in) and stepping into the room. He holds his breath and listens to the soft footsteps on carpet. Squeezes his eyes shut tighter, tighter, tighter-

Blinks them open to peer up when his dad's hand comes to rest on his blanket-clad shoulder.

"You alright?" His dad asks. "It's not liked you to be in bed so early." (Is it early? It feels like he's been in bed for hours.) The concerned hand moves from Stiles' shoulder to his forehead. "You feel a bit warm."

(How can he be warm? He can't stop shivering.)

Part of him wants to tell his dad the truth; to curl up in his dad's protective arms and cry until the hollow feeling in his chest doesn't feel so hollow anymore and he can close his eyes without feeling sick to his stomach at the never ending nightmare which plays on a loop behind his eyelids. But he can't. (Not now. Not ever.)

So Stiles does what Stiles does best.

He lies.

"I'm fine." His voice is hoarse and unsteady. (Unconvincing.)

Fingers comb through his hair (need to get a haircut soon) and Stiles doesn't realise his eyes have fluttered closed until the soft touch of his dad pressing a kiss to his forehead causes them to snap open. The affection is uncharacteristic these days (but far from unwelcome).

He throat feels tight with emotion (oh god please don't cry please don't cry) and he thinks maybe he whimpers. It's hard to tell with the echo of falling metal still ringing in his ears.

"Maybe you should stay home tomorrow." His dad sounds concerned.

(Shouldn't be concerned. Nobody's supposed to be concerned. Not about a murderer.)

"I'm fine." Stiles tries again. His voice is steadier but no less hoarse (no less unconvincing).

His dad sighs. "Get some sleep, son."

Soft footsteps on carpet. The light fades (door closes) and Stiles is left alone in the dark with his thoughts.

Get some sleep, son.

He doesn't sleep. Can't sleep. So he just lies there, curled up beneath the covers (beneath his blanket; the one that will protect him) and watches the scene replay over and over and over and over and ov-

At some point just before dawn he must fall asleep. Not for long though; half an hour? Forty-five minutes?

The scene doesn't end with unconsciousness. If anything, it gets worse; the real-life nightmare distorted by the shifting fog and grotesque faces of an actual nightmare.

(His life is one big nightmare. Does he ever wake up? Is any of this even real?)

(Don't go there. Don't go there.)

He wakes with a scream stuck in his chest and the taste of bile on his tongue. The covers tangle around his legs but he just makes it to the toilet before what little he ate yesterday makes a reappearance. He stays there; bent over the porcelain bowl heaving and gasping as tears streak down his face.

"Stiles?"

He makes an effort to push himself up when his dad appears in he doorway but his limbs are weak and trembling (from fear? from exertion?). He slumps back against the wall (can't shake away Donovan's smirking, laughing, distorted face seared onto the backs of his eyelids). Doesn't (can't) move. Offers no protest as his dad wets a washcloth and drop to his knees beside his son.

"No school today," the Sheriff says decidedly and Stiles almost wants to laugh.

He's not sick. He's not even crazy anymore. (He's just a murderer.)

But he can't face school today, not when he can barely stand to see himself in the mirror, so he just nods and let's his dad call the school while he shuffles back to bed. He'll take the day to sort through everything in his head and then maybe he'll be ready to face the world (face his friends) again tomorrow.

Or at the very least he'll have come up with a convincing enough lie to tell them.

(Whichever comes first.)


End file.
